


Some Kind of Casanova

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Early Days, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Band, Pre-Van Days, Scumbaron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:59:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6913786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete delivers pizza when he doesn't have a show. He asks Patrick to come with him. There's more than one way to interpret such a request...</p><p>(Set in the earliest days of Fall Out Boy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Casanova

Patrick is half hard and half sick, sliding into the passenger seat of Pete’s low-slung black car. It’s a two-seater, the upholstery worn through and stuffing pouring out, the smell of pizza almost-but-not-quite covering the muskier smell of Pete: sweat, some kind of body spray, smoke, toothy smiles. Patrick is not sure why he agreed to this. He has heard one thing about Pete Wentz: he is trouble. Some kind of bass-playing Casanova, in more bands than he can possibly care about, with some kind of flint-edged talent that everyone wants to grab hold of. When Pete is happy, he is known for smiles and generosity and easy kisses, for his sense of adventure and laughter and fun. When Pete is not happy, he is known for recklessness, self-destruction, a tired and sullen face and a slow, sad smile, hollow jack-o-lantern eyes, and disappearing acts.

So maybe Patrick has heard more than one thing about Pete Wentz. Patrick has been listening, has had his ear to the ground, so to speak. There are three girls and one boy in his year alone who claim to have fucked Pete Wentz in this very car. That’s the main thing Patrick has heard about Pete, in point of fact: sex happens in this car. It is not a car for the unwary or the prudish or the enthusiastically virginal.

And here Patrick is, in it.

Is it any wonder his palms sweat, his stomach turns, his dick surges in little heartbeat blips like it’s still deciding whether he should fuck or flee? Not that Patrick came here to fuck. Patrick came here to—well, like he said, Patrick is not sure why he agreed to this.

Patrick has spoken to Pete Wentz exactly once, in the comfort of Patrick’s own home, where Pete made him sing with eyes on his throat like a hungry wolf, and Patrick was glad because eyes on his lips meant there were no eyes on his crotch, where things more embarrassing than singing were happening. Pete has eyes like _whoa_ and they sunk into Patrick’s like inky hooks, his lips parted in pleasure and expectation. Patrick stood, singing, sixteen years old, and did not know what to do with his hands. His mother was in the next room. He tried very, very hard to think about that, but his treacherous cock had other ideas.

No one in the next room now. Just him and Pete, who is lounging in an exaggerated way in the driver’s seat, one Van out the window and his head rolled back on his headrest to grin at Patrick, one hand resting at his thorny throat. He is wearing torn black jeans and a girls’ Bulls t-shirt and at least two belts, and (Patrick is pretty sure) eyeliner. It is all impossibly cool. Music plays on the stereo, bass-heavy and rumbling through the speakers into Patrick’s lungs, but he can barely hear it. Pete blinks slowly, the speed of caramel melting, and Patrick adds half a heart attack to his physical inventory of half-states. Why in god’s name did Patrick think it was a good idea to come here, to get into this car.

“Hey,” Patrick squeaks.

Pete’s grin splits and widens, teeth sharp and white. Patrick tries to casually arrange his legs to conceal the aforementioned treacherous cock. Pete delivers pizzas on weekends when he isn’t playing shows. He’s asked Patrick to tag along with him tonight so they can discuss “their possibilities.” Patrick assumes he means as a band, but he can’t be sure. He has heard certain legends.

“Hello, Patrick,” Pete says with his wolf’s smile. “Welcome to my office.”

“Oh yeah? This is where you broker business deals?” Patrick isn’t sure, but he’s either embarrassing the hell out of himself or bantering. He hopes it’s sexy banter. Patrick is a little tongue-tied, a little breathless, realizing how much he wants Pete to find him sexy. Pete is 20 years old. It seems dangerous and a little insane, to want to be found sexy.

Someone pounds on the roof of Pete’s car and Patrick yelps, rendering the whole sexiness quandary a moot point, probably. Unless Pete’s into girlish yelping. Patrick hasn’t heard any legends about that. Better not to think about what Pete’s into, Patrick decides, crossing his legs more firmly. Causal, be causal.

Pete pulls his feet into the car, opens the door, and exits all in one smooth motion. He might actually be a liquid, barely contained in honey-browned skin. Patrick thinks about what it would take to burst that thin film, for the liquid to rush out, over him, gushing…

These are unhelpful thoughts to be having. Pete bounces back into the car, dropping hard into his seat and causing the whole car to jolt with his movement, and Patrick is glad to be physically torn from his reverie. It must be the smell. That’s what’s wrong with Patrick. He’s having some sort of allergic reaction to Pete’s body spray. Pete deposits an insulated pizza bag ungraciously onto Patrick’s lap, and Patrick is grateful for that too. The bag is large and awkward, hot and greasy and smelling of cheese, and there is definitely no way Pete will notice his erection through two layers of insulation and a pizza, no matter how insistently it’s hardening against Patrick’s thigh.

Covertly, Patrick scopes out the backseat. There’s not much space: one narrow bucket seat. Not much room for two—not with any kind of… mobility. Patrick wonders if that means the action happens in the front seat, in these very seats. A delicious shiver chases across his skin.

“We’re going to Northbrook,” Pete announces, handing Patrick a slip of receipt paper with a name, address, and pizza order on it. Patrick focuses on reading the words and breathing deeply. His heart attack is intensifying. It’s got to be at least three-quarter strength by now. “This is a very confusing neighborhood, I must warn you. We might get lost.” Pete waggles his eyebrows and the heart attack amps up to 85%.

“Like Little Red Riding Hood,” Patrick manages, displaying his super cool knack for saying the stupidest possible thing at any given moment. The last thing he wants to be doing is reminding Pete of how _young_ he is. Patrick pulls the brim of his hat down lower in attempt to conceal his blush. At least there’s enough blood left in his general body to generate a blush. Based on what his dick is doing in the warm pizza-y privacy of his covered lap, he’s probably looking corpse-pale, anemic.

Pete looks at him sideways, navigating the car out of the alley behind the pizza place and towards their destination. “Don’t worry, we’ll stay on the path.”

A few moments pass without conversation. Pete sings along to his stereo without real commitment. He bobs his head to the beat. Patrick grows increasingly sweaty beside him.

Finally Patrick says, “So it looks like we’re going to be spending a lot of time in cars together.” This is an impossibly stupid thing to say, and if there was any oxygen in his body going anywhere but his penis, maybe he could formulate an intelligent utterance, but that’s just not who he is today. “Um, because of the band. If the band happens. It seems like the band is happening.”

“Looks like,” Pete says noncommittally. “We’ll see. You got any songs?”

Patrick is worried that if he says yes, Pete will want to hear them, so he makes an ambivalent noise. Not using words was a mistake, however, because silence settles over them again. When there is silence, Patrick’s brain fills it with suggestions about the different activities that may have occurred in this car in the past, and those that may occur in the future. He shifts a little in his seat, the hot weight of the pizza bag providing friction for his cock to slide against, which is overall a bad idea. This is a bad idea, this is a really incredibly bad idea, Patrick tells himself, rocking his hips in torturous slow motion so he can feel it again, again. He’s looking at Pete’s profile, he’s looking at Pete’s mouth, he’s imagining the dark wet hollow inside—

A small and horrifying sound escapes Patrick’s lips, a throaty exhalation that is not unlike a gasp, and he freezes in his subtle movement against the pizza bag. “You okay?” Pete asks, glancing at him with an unreadable look in his deep brown eyes. Patrick trains his mortified eyes on the weave of Pete’s thorn tattoo. He would rather throw himself out of this moving car than meet Pete’s eye right now.

Hoping desperately that his breathing sounds normal, that his voice isn’t as strangled as it feels, Patrick blurts out bullishly, “So what did you want to see me for?”

Pete looks at him again. They’re deep in the suburbs now. It is a bit like a dark and scary forest. “Were you serious about the business transaction thing? Because I just thought we could hang out, get to know each other better. I don’t have, like, an agenda. Do you? You look like a kid with action items that need addressing.”

 _Yes, and here’s one bursting out of my pants now_ , Patrick would say if he were bolder or more sexually experienced or less of a dork. Pete is inscrutable: Patrick truly cannot tell if everything out of that coy mouth just _sounds_ like a come-on to his perverse and burning ears or if it actually is one, whether this so-called Casanova has lascivious intentions.

Somehow one of Patrick’s hands has slipped beneath the pizza bag. As they wend slowly through Tim Burton-esque ‘burbs at school-zone speeds, he begins to stroke himself through his jeans. Patrick has not decided to do this. It’s just happening. He doesn’t know whether or not he wants Pete to notice, or rather, he wants both of these things intensely, at the same time.

“Knowing each other better sounds good to me,” Patrick croaks. He’s thinking about Pete’s skin again, how much of it there is he cannot see and how queasy-excited he feels about what he can see. V-necks should be illegal. He wants to catalogue Pete’s tattoos with his tongue, starting with the thorns and working downwards. He’s seen Pete’s shirt pull up during a basement show; he knows there are reasons to go _downwards_. He knows exactly where he’d like his mouth to be.

Patrick has never had such lewd thoughts before in his life, never rubbed his own cock while looking someone else in the eyes, certainly never done this with another guy. This was not his plan when he came here tonight. Admittedly, there was a certain daydream, this morning in geometry class. But it wasn’t a _plan_. And it didn’t involve rubbing his dick on a pizza bag with Pete all the way over there, in the driver’s seat. It involved—

Oh. Pete’s gaze, darting glances under his bangs, dark eyes and furrowed brow, has alighted on the back of Patrick’s own hand—the one on top of the insulator bag. Patrick’s breath catches audibly in his throat and Pete freezes, lifting his own black-nailed hand so it floats across the car, just skimming the hairs on the back of Patrick’s hand where it hovers, not quite touching. He doesn’t pull back. The gesture is as clear as words, clearer: _Is this okay?_

This is not okay. This is electric agony. Patrick is going to come all over himself if they go on like this. He cannot stand it. He feels a little crazy, a little reckless, and entirely invincible. He licks his bottom lip, deciding. He flips his palm up, presses his hand into Pete’s, weaves their fingers together. For just a moment, their hands hold. It might be his own exploding heartbeat, but he thinks Pete squeezes.

Then Pete does pull away. He takes his hand back from Patrick and applies it to the steering wheel, turns the car up a driveway with what Patrick thinks—hopes—is regret on his face.

“Be right back,” Pete says lightly, putting the car into park and hoisting the pizza off Patrick’s lap before he has time to prepare. Caught red-handed—cock-handed. The interior of the car is dark. It’s hard to know how much Pete sees. He doesn’t react, anyway, just turns and opens his door, slides out without look back. Patrick tries to view this as a good thing. The interior light kicks on when the door opens, leaving his swollen dick plainly visible under his flushed hand.

But a large part of him wants Pete to see.

He watches Pete walk up the driveway, hips and ass framed by low-rise jeans. Patrick’s hand resumes its motion, faster now, up and down along his hard-on, rubbing against the seam of his jeans. He is filled with the mad courage of lust, a bright horny insanity from which anything is not only possible, but also a _very good idea_. Panting, he formulates a plan. He watches Pete wait, receive payment, deliver pizza. He makes eye contact with Pete as he walks back to the car, lips parted around his breathing. Pete half-smiles at him, unaware of what Patrick’s hand is up to inside the car.

This time, Patrick doesn’t try to hide what’s straining in his pants, but Pete Wentz, like some kind of gentleman, does not look. He tosses the insulator bag into the back and shifts the car into gear. “The thrilling lifestyle of the rich and famous, right? This is why I wanted you to come. I get bored.”

“I’m not bored,” Patrick hears himself say. He reaches across the center console, all nine miles of it, with an embarrassing trembly hand. He wants this. God, does he want this. And if half the rumors he’s heard are true, maybe Pete does too. Dart-like, before he can change his mind, Patrick drops his hand to Pete’s thigh. Pete makes a soft sound of surprise, looks at Patrick with wide, startled eyes.

Patrick moves his hand up slowly, like a question. “Patrick, this isn’t why I asked you to come with me,” Pete says. He sounds slightly horrified, but Patrick hears longing too. Pete doesn’t push Patrick’s hand away, doesn’t take his eyes off Patrick’s face. Is Patrick imagining it, or is his chest heaving slightly with quickened breath? If Pete doesn’t look back at the road soon, they’ll both be dead.

“But I want to come with you,” Patrick replies. His voice is low in his throat, almost a purr, and he can’t quite believe his own audacity. Suddenly he’s some kind of Lolita. Pete makes a helpless sound in his throat (Patrick quite likes this) and finally tears his eyes away, back to the road.

Patrick marshals his courage and moves his hand _up_. Pete makes another sound, this one louder, as Patrick finds his dick, half hard, anticipating him.

“Patrick!” Pete gasps, Patrick running his thumb to trace the length of it, using the rest of his hand to curl around Pete’s balls. Pete squirms in his seat, pushing back into Patrick’s hand. “You don’t have to—”

“Do you want me to?” Patrick doesn’t know where this sexy, slutty voice is coming from or what happened to his usual dork tones, but he is so, so grateful. He can’t quite believe this is happening. Maybe he’s still in geometry, daydreaming. Maybe he really will come in his pants.

“God, oh god,” Pete says, and Patrick doesn’t care if it’s a daydream or not, he’s all in. He rubs Pete’s dick harder.

“Because I want to,” Patrick says, his voice dropping into a whisper.

“Yes,” Pete moans, staring at the road with singular desperation. Patrick undoes his seatbelt and leans, the gearshift digging pleasantly into his pelvis, using his other hand to dig for Pete’s zipper under all those belts.

The car swerves jerkily off course and back on course again, jolting them over the rumble strips, Pete cursing in a long and breathy stream. Patrick gets his hand in Pete’s pants and moans aloud when his fingers find the hot velvet skin of Pete’s cock, fully hard now. The pulse of it pushes into Patrick’s hand, swelling against his grip, and Patrick works his own hips against the gearshift.

“Jesus, Patrick!” is the last thing he hears before his mouth finds Pete’s cock. He hasn’t done this before, only ever imagined it, but he knows what he’s imagined would feel good, so he does that. He pushes his head down, parting his lips over the head of Pete’s cock, letting his tongue smooth its surface and its sides, seeking, lubricating, encouraging it to slide deeper—filling his mouth, nearing his throat. Pete is close to nonverbal now, emitting panting, pleading noises and unfinished fragments of Patrick’s name.

Sucking Pete’s dick is better than Patrick imagined it. The movement of his head and tongue are quickly losing synchrony, becoming frantic, as he imagines swallowing Pete Wentz’s come and feels his own cock near bursting. He realizes he is moaning too, licking and sucking like Pete’s dick has a candy center, like it holds his salvation.

The car accelerates as Pete’s hips lift off the seat, the noises he’s making growing more urgent. The fingers of one hand are tangling in Patrick’s hair, stroking the back of his neck with tenderness instead of force. Patrick had imagined this was a pretty standard Friday night if you were Pete Wentz, but based on the soft, eager, grateful noises Pete is making, maybe not. Excited, near to exploding, Patrick grinds his pelvis into the gearshift, rubbing his cock across it, close and close and—

There is a hideous, gut-squeezing squeal as Patrick humps the car into neutral. It slides sideways, dropping out of gear, and the engine cuts out. Patrick’s teeth scrape the side of Pete’s cock as he slides off it, flung against the dash with the sudden motion. The car comes to a halt on the road’s shoulder, back end fishtailing. Luckily, there are no other cars around, a cursory glance out of the slightly steamed windows reveals. Patrick can imagine nothing more mortifying than a concerned motorist appearing at the window just now.

Until Pete’s laughter unwinds, a low growing chuckle that spools out of him and fills the car. Pete’s cock rises from his groin, hard and glistening and obscene; Patrick’s chin is wet, his cheeks burning, his own inseam damp with pre-come. And Pete is fucking _laughing_ at him.

“Are you fucking _laughing_ at me?” Patrick demands, just to confirm, sliding back into his seat with whatever scrap of dignity is still available to him. Pete can only nod, laughing so hard now he doesn’t have the breath to speak. To Patrick’s growing horror, tears appear at the corners of Pete’s crinkled eyes. Patrick crosses his arms over his chest, feeling angry and ridiculous, his own erection still throbbing uncomfortably and showing no appreciation for righteous anger.

“Fuck you!” he says, but this only makes Pete laugh harder.

“Come _here_ ,” Pete gasps, smiling broadly, his teeth reflecting streetlights, his arms extending, his hands finding Patrick’s shoulder and chin. _Like an asshole_ , Patrick thinks, ignoring the way his skin thrills at the touch. “God, are you all right? I never would have let you take off your seatbelt if I’d known you planned on running us off the road.”

Pete looks at Patrick’s outraged face and just keeps laughing, cupping his chin. The hand on Patrick’s shoulder tries to draw him closer, but Patrick resists it. “I thought you were going to go out the windshield!” Pete is still laughing, awfully derisive for someone with a red wet dick poking out of their pants, and Patrick scowls harder.

“You are so fucking sexy,” Pete says, eyes sparkling, “that I worried you’d be the death of me. But I never dreamed you’d be so direct about it.”

Since Patrick doesn’t yield when Pete tries to guide him by the chin, Pete moves instead, leaning into Patrick’s space to put his grinning mouth on Patrick’s own. The kiss is so sweet and surprising that Patrick forgives Pete’s laughter without meaning to, his slightly wilted hard-on rallying to the forefront of his attention as Pete’s soft lips press against his, as Pete’s teeth gently bite his lips open, as Pete’s tongue tentatively enters his mouth, undertaking a slow deliberate exploration that is nothing like Patrick’s greedy lapping of Pete’s cock. Pete’s hands meet around Patrick’s cheeks, holding his face with an unimagined tenderness, and Patrick sinks into the kiss, all but undone.

He’s reaching for Pete’s waistline when Pete breaks the kiss and pulls away, breathless and dazzled. Streetlights suit him, Patrick thinks dazedly, with whatever part of him is even capable of thinking anymore. Pete leans back and for a horrible moment Patrick thinks he’s moving away, changing his mind—but then Pete finds his seat release and the driver’s seat falls flat, yielding far more room for mobility than Patrick had guessed. Still showing that damnable grin, all those tempting teeth, Pete tumbles back into the seat like a cat in the grass and slowly draws Patrick down on top of him.

“We don’t have long,” Pete says into his ear. This time Patrick definitely detects a trace of regret. Pete’s lips brush Patrick’s ear while he whispers; Patrick’s body shudders in response. His hips settle on top of Pete’s, cock to denim cock, and Patrick is beginning to chafe, Patrick is very much of the opinion that they should not be wearing pants at all.

“And I don’t want to rush with you,” Pete is whispering. “After all, you said there’d be lots of car rides…”

Patrick’s hips are moving with a level of desperation he’d find embarrassing, if he was even remotely in control. “ _Fuck_ you,” he growls again, looking down at Pete. “ _You_ said we could get lost together.”

And then their mouths collide, crashing together at Patrick’s pace, because Patrick is on top, Patrick is in charge. Patrick’s hands slide up under Pete’s shirt and Pete’s hands fumble with Patrick’s zipper, and the moment their bare cocks touch is almost too much, Patrick almost comes just from that, and Pete is kissing up into his mouth with tongue and teeth and _need_ , and Pete’s dick is slick with Patrick’s own spit as they grind their hips together, and before he’s even remotely ready for it to be over Patrick is crying out, Patrick is biting down onto Pete’s collarbone, Patrick is coming into Pete’s pubic hair and across Pete’s belly, and into this sticky mess between them Pete thrusts and moans and tips his head back, eyes squeezed closed, jaw clenched in either misery or ecstasy, and he comes too, hot onto Patrick’s skin and shirt and jeans. Patrick collapses down onto him, gasping for breath, resting his forehead on Pete’s shoulder, his disbelieving hands stroking and exploring and treasuring the Pete skin beneath him, now that things aren’t so urgent, now that there’s time.

“I’ve never done that before,” he confesses to Pete’s shoulder.

“Me neither,” says Pete into his ear. Pete turns his head, bites Patrick’s ear gently, presses a sloppy kiss into the side of Patrick’s head. Patrick has lost his hat during the fray, he notices distantly. It is hard to care much about his physical existence from this plane of sublimated divinity. “You’re supposed to be some kind of Casanova,” Patrick accuses contentedly, nuzzling into Pete’s shoulder with defenseless sincerity. No matter how many times he’s gotten off imagining Pete getting off, if this is the first blowjob-turned-car-crash Pete has experienced, he’s okay with that. One does strive to be memorable.

“I guess we’re both full of surprises,” Pete says, a happy hum in his voice. “Speaking of which, I can’t wait to see what you have planned for our next delivery.”

“ _Next_ delivery?”

Pete grins. Patrick likes it so much it hurts. “I don’t get off until 11. We’ve got a full night’s work ahead of us, ‘Trick. And I am _definitely_ not letting you leave after that.”

Pete eases them up into a seated position, pushing off one elbow and using the other arm to clasp Patrick to his chest, leaving a small and perfect bite on Patrick’s neck. “Just don’t crash my car next time, ‘kay? For some funny reason, you make me want to live.”

As Patrick peels himself off Pete and starts mopping himself up with a truly inadequate paper napkin, Pete’s phone begins to ring in the cupholder, as if on cue. Pete answers, grinning sin at Patrick, fishing his own pizza place napkin out of the backseat. “Hey, boss. No, just a little car trouble. Absolutely. I’m on my way back now.”

Pete starts the car, steers them back onto the street. This time, he takes Patrick’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so EMBARRASSED, I feel like you all know way too much about me right now, I WROTE THIS ON AN AIRPLANE LIKE A TRASHLORD. This is the first time I've ever written acontextual smut. I hope you like it??? What a weird thing to say. #scumbaron #likelordbyronbeforeme


End file.
